


Regarding the Pizza Boy

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [8]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Boy tryna fuck for some pizza, Hung Lance, M/M, Marijuana, Pizza Deliverer Lance (Voltron), Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: A classic porn set-up with a side of weed, but make it klance. A surprisingly straight-faced take on a silly Twitter prompt.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Comments: 5
Kudos: 266





	Regarding the Pizza Boy

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

Keith probably fucks up most when he gets high _after_ ordering a pizza, but _before_ getting in the shower. It hits him right as the water reaches the perfect too-hot temperature: the sludge of it all; the lethargy in all his limbs and all his thoughts, and the way he can’t remember what he was supposed to be thinking about (and even better, doesn’t care).

So by the time he’s climbing out, all red-chested and droopy from the steam and weed, his phone is already chiming on the vanity with one missed call.

“Hello?”

In some faraway place, he kind of expects the voice on the phone to be annoyed, but it just sounds amused. “Hi, pizza delivery?”

It sounds male; young; _nice_.

Keith likes _nice_.

“Right,” he says.

He cradles his phone against his shoulder as he ties the used hand towel hanging beside the sink around his wet hair. It makes him drop his bath towel. He almost loses his phone as he fumbles to pick it up. His jaw is still wet. He can’t remember if he washed the conditioner out of his hair.

“Uh...can you buzz me up?” the nice voice asks.

Keith curses softly again.

“ _Right_ ,” he repeats.

It takes him a second to actually do it (to remember what number he has to dial to get the door to buzz), but then his phone goes dark in his hand and he’s tying his towel around his waist properly.

Now, his wallet.

On the nightstand.

Right.

Or on the kitchen counter, maybe. He tries the counter first, and that's a mistake. He's only halfway down the hallway when the doorbell rings, and he spends a silly, undecided moment cocking one hip out and then the other, using up all the time he has to figure out if he should be using it to look in the bedroom or not. The doorbell sounds again (and it manages to waste even more time, because it's one of those dumb novelty ones that he can't convince his landlord to ditch: bing-bing-bing-BONG; bing-bing-bing-BONG...DING—god, even _high_ it's fucking annoying), so he heads in that direction.

The first thing Keith notices upon opening the door is a face.

It's a handsome face: dark, blue-eyed, full-lipped, long-lashed, cheeky-grinned.

It's _nice_.

Keith really likes _nice_.

He especially likes nice smiles. Specifically when they're more smirk than anything else, and all filled in with mischief like this one is.

“‘Za for Kogane?”

He’s so busy admiring the way that mouth fits around the words that he doesn’t really clock what they are. “It’s Kogane,” he says absently, a solid three beats too late, because the guy had pronounced it _Koh-Gain_. That usually pisses him off, but in the moment he only finds himself frustrated that he’d been called that and not something _nicer_. Like Keith.

Or Kitten.

“Sorry,” the guy says, but he doesn’t sound sorry. In fact, the longer Keith looks, the more contradictions he spots.

The guy says he’s sorry, but he grins like the apology is some kind of in-joke. He wears a cheap polyester uniform with a garish hat, but he makes it look stupid good, the visible hint of sinuous muscle and his casual stance overshadowing the ugly, utilitarian outfit.

Keith can see the outline of his cock. He wonders if that’s because he’s a little hard, or if he’s just bigger than average, or if the pants are just that thin.

Maybe all three. Wouldn’t that be something?

The towel around his head is coming loose.

“That’ll be $22.54, Mr. _Koh-Gah-Nay_ ,” the guy says, and his goading is that particular kind that sounds on the edge of laughter, and it frustrates Keith.

 _A lot_ about this dude frustrates Keith.

It’s kind of nice.

Frustratingly nice.

“Keith,” he says.

“Keith,” the guy repeats, all amused with both eyebrows up and that smile only getting wider. “Easy peasy. I’m Lance.”

Oh god, of fucking _course_ he has a boyband name. He probably lets just the top of his underwear peek out of his jeans when he’s not in uniform, too. He probably wears them tight enough that Keith would still be wondering if he’s hard or just hung.

“Hi Lance,” he says. He has to give up the ghost on the towel around his head: it slips down over one eye, so he peels it off and chucks it haphazardly at the couch.

“Did you want to pay me for your pizza, Keith?” the guy— _Lance_ —asks.

Right.

 _Right_.

He’d been hungry.

(It seems to have been replaced by _thirst_ at some point, but he’s no longer sure when.)

“Shit. I need to, uh...wallet.”

His hair is dripping down his back. A few drops catch on his shoulders and roll down over his chest. He’s pretty sure Lance has already noticed them.

He’s less sure Lance is _watching_ them.

(But he's still pretty damned sure.)

Fuck, he can’t focus on all these things at once.

It’s frustrating.

It’s _nice_.

“That’s OK” Lance says, “No rush, you’re my last stop. ‘Wallet’ away.”

Keith blinks at him. “It’s in my bedroom.”

Lance actually laughs at that (and his laugh is nice, too, how unfair is that?). “How high are you?”

He’s definitely a little hard, Keith decides. No pizza place would let their delivery boy walk around showing like that. “High,” he answers, “But not too high.”

Lance stops laughing. “Oh?”

Keith nods, and it’s not until he looks up that he realizes he’s been talking mostly to Lance’s crotch. “Oh,” he says.

“But…” Lance says, and then seems to take a second to think, leaning back as if he needs to get more of Keith in frame; needs to bite some kind of bullet. “But...maybe so high you need a hand?”

“To grab my wallet?”

“To pay,” Lance says, and this time it’s him speaking mostly to Keith’s crotch. Goosebumps break out over his hips from the water droplets that have rolled down from his hair. (Mostly.)

Keith laughs. “I have the money.”

Lance waggles his eyebrows. “Maybe you need a hand deciding on a tip?”

“Replace that ‘i’ with an ‘o’ and I can see your point,” Keith replies, before he can think too much about all the safe, sensible things he should say instead.

Even though Keith is the high one, it takes Lance a moment to get it. “Top…? Oh. _Oh_. That’s actually clever.”

“I’m high, not dumb.”

“Seems like you’re a couple other things, too.” Lance is talking to his crotch again. It’s frustrating to Keith that he doesn’t mind.

It’s more frustrating that he’s already kind of hard. “I am,” he answers simply, “I’m...I think I…” He has no idea how to say ‘you’re so hot that I’m tryna fuck for some pizza,’ so he just turns and heads into his apartment with a flippant, “Bedroom’s this way.”

For a second—just a split second—it occurs to him, in its entirety, just how ridiculous the situation is. It happens right as he hears Lance close and lock the door: a little drop in Keith’s stomach followed by an outrageous swoop at the salacious danger and absurdity of it all. “This is how stupid people die,” he says as he leads a virtual stranger into his messy bedroom with a towel around his waist that’s getting looser by the second.

Lance’s hands land on his shoulders from behind. They’re cold. His fingertips make him shiver as they follow trails of water down from his nape alongside his spine.

“Sometimes, probably,” he says. “Sometimes, this is how stupid people come.”

Fair enough. (It isn’t, really, but as high and horny as Keith finds himself, it is, in the moment.)

Lance doesn’t lift his hands as Keith turns; just lets his fingers drag along the skin right above the towel and then digs them into his sharp hips. “These aren’t _fair_ ,” he murmurs.

Keith isn’t in the mood to waste any more time. (His pizza is probably getting cold, after all.) Besides, he has questions that need answering, so he lets himself be bold: he palms over the outline of Lance’s cock. “ _This_ isn’t fair,” he replies.

Turns out it really is all three:

The pants are thin and cheaply constructed. Keith has the sneaking suspicion there’s nothing beneath them, the slut. (...says him, but that’s neither here nor there, and not worth dwelling on.)

He’s not fully hard yet, but he’s getting there. 

_And_ he’s big.

Keith manipulates the cheap fabric so it pulls taut and then relaxes—tries to gauge just _how_ big—but the movement just makes Lance huff this half-stifled moaning noise, and he forgets what he was trying to figure out. He chases that noise. He wants to know what it sounds like without the surprise, so he rubs his hand up and down again, and squeezes carefully on the downstroke, and looks up into Lance’s eyes to watch the blue disappear as he moans for real.

It sounds so nice. “Can I kiss you?” Lance asks.

It’s almost a ridiculous question, considering where Keith’s hand is, but it sounds so, _so_ fucking nice (all low and desperate like that, with his cock in Keith’s hand, and Keith's towel hanging by the barest tension, just below Lance’s fingers). He gets the “uh-h-” of an “uh-huh” out before Lance’s lips are on his. It’s messy; uncoordinated; new.

But it’s a _nice_ new.

It’s the kind of new that makes the roof of his mouth tingle.

The kind of new that makes Lance get even bigger in his hand. The kind of new that makes him pull back (not too far); take a breath (of Lance’s air on his lips); look him in the eye (to watch the blue disappear more; like their compatibility is swallowing it) before he leans in slow and lets his eyes flutter shut at the pulse of Lance’s cock.

He lets the towel fall. Lets himself blush and demand right into Lance’s mouth, “Take your clothes off,” the way he almost never does. Lets Lance lick into his mouth one more time to kiss him hard and dirty before he relents and does as he’s told.

Lance is carefully manicured—all smooth skin and sparse hair and smelling of coconut oil under the greasy residue of his job—and when he’s finally naked, Keith can see that he’s dark and uncut and delectable.

“If I blow you for a while, will you still be able to fuck me after?”

He has to be sure. Lance _does_ look delectable, but Keith has priorities here.

“Not if you keep talking like / _that_ ,” Lance says, and before Keith can decide which ‘-mused’ he sounds like—’am’ or ‘be’—he’s being forced down onto his knees. “Better get to work if you want both.”

Fair enough.

(Really, this time.)

He gets to work.

And it _is_ work, considering his size, which makes Keith so hard so suddenly that he kind of wonders if he’s going to make it to the fucking part, himself. And really, Lance is one to point fingers about talking dirty, considering the shit that comes out of his mouth.

(He can point all the fingers he wants, though, so far as Keith as concerned, as long as he doesn’t shut up.)

“Oh _shit_ you want my cock that bad?”

A hand in his damp hair.

“You look so pretty when you open your mouth like that.”

A cock tapping his damp lips before driving between them again, deeper.

“Swa–yeah, fucking _swallow_ just like–fuck _yes_ don’t stop.”

Okay, so he can shut up on only _one_ condition, Keith is willing to amend, as Lance’s sentences start running into each other.

He stops. “Don’t come,” he reminds Lance, and licks from base to tip to make sure he has his full attention. “I still want to fuck.”

Lance stutters out what might be a laugh or a groan, and grips himself hard. “What did I say about the _talking_ if you want that to happen?”

All the same, he’s hauling Keith up and pushing him back onto the unmade bed and searching through his nightstand for lube and condoms. Keith would tell him where they are, but he’s enjoying the view too much: Lance's thin waist at that angle, the muscles in his back stretched, his cock hard (tantalizing as the tip hangs against Keith's lowest right rib and leaves a clear dollop in its wake).

Absent-mindedly stroking himself as he watches, Keith leaves his own clear dollops on his stomach by the time Lance is settled between his legs with two slick fingers and a condom on and a pool of lube on the sheets he's sure must be soaking into the mattress. “Fuck, be quick.”

Lance smirks. “Delivery in thirty minutes or less, guaranteed.”

Keith groans. “Fuck, be _quiet_.”

“Just sayin’, this sausage is hot ‘n’ ready.”

Kissing him does a better job of shutting him up. Lance’s fingers sliding in to the knuckle do a pretty good job of making Keith forget the bad jokes, anyway. “God, you’re unbelievable, this is _unbelievable, ah_!”

“That’s way too many syllables,” Lance says. “We’ll have to work on that.”

Keith wants to make a joke about his inability to follow more than a few syllables at a time, but he forgets what syllables _are_ when Lance crooks his fingers.

“Better,” Lance says, and does it again as he leans down to tease his tongue against Keith’s nipples. Keith can’t remember what Lance is talking about.

It’s frustrating, but somehow the frustration feels good, too, and he thinks there’s been more of that along the way, but he can’t keep anything straight anymore, because nothing matters aside from the fact that he _wants_. “Fuck, now,” he says, “Want you now, fuck me now... _please_ …”

“Much better,” Lance says, and pulls his fingers free, and lines up, and…

“Yeah…” Keith breathes, tight and strained. “Lance. _Yes_ …”

“How’s that for unbelievable?” Lance goads.

It’s way too many syllables. Keith hooks his ankles together behind Lance’s back and tightens his legs; curls his abs up so his cock is trapped between them and Lance can’t fill him any more (and he bemoans it even though just this much is a stretch).

“Come on,” he urges, “Come _on_ …”

Lance starts up a rhythm with a reverent exhale. He shifts Keith’s thighs easily with his hips; pulls out and up so that gravity has him dropping back in with more force. He stays on his forearms, and crowds in until their air is thick. It means he can keep his face hovering above Keith's; keep their eyes locked and their lips close enough for him to dive in and steal a little of Keith’s breath every time he thinks he’s caught it.

“Faster,” Keith begs.

“No,” Lance murmurs, and his smirk is a little wrecked.

Keith whines. “Fuck, need _more_ of you.”

“ _What_ did I _say_ about the _talking_?”

He thinks he might be leaving nail marks on Lance’s back. Neither of them seem to care. Serves him right, anyway. Fucking the clientele is probably against company policy.

Something occurs to Keith. “‘m gonna make you come, aren’t I?” he says, almost awed.

“Not before you.”

Keith’s laugh sounds in silly lockstep with his heaving breaths, like Lance is fucking it out of him. “Wanna bet?” he asks. Lance doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He quirks his eyebrow, and looks _far_ too smug, and puts more weight behind his thrusts.

And just like that, it’s a competition.

And that’s frustrating.

And nice.

Mostly nice.

Keith unwinds his ankles so he can plant one foot on the bed and keep the other around Lance’s thigh. He forces himself up; grinds his cock harder against that smooth stomach; makes Lance feel exactly how close he is.

Makes him feel how close a margin Keith is going to _win_ by.

But Lance plays dirty.

(Or maybe he’s just been paying closer attention in the right places.)

He lays a hand over Keith’s throat beneath his jaw. His touch is light—safe—but everything inherent in the action makes Keith tense up in the best way. “That’s it,” Lance growls, “Fucking _work_ for it.”

Keith loses it slow, at first, with a sluggish, weak pulse; like his mind can’t quite keep up with his body. “I’m coming,” he gasps, heavy with nonsensical realization. “Fuck you, I’m _coming_.”

He spasms so hard he can’t tell whether he’s pulling Lance closer or pushing him away. He loses any semblance of rhythm; comes thick and messy between them and grinds mindlessly against Lance’s abs so he can hear the nasty hot noise of it. It looks like it physically hurts, but Lance doesn’t stop; keeps thrusting with that same _weight_ until Keith flops back and lets his oversensitive body _take it_.

“I win,” Lance grunts, and pulls out, and is coming by the time he gets the condom off. He pulses and spills over Keith’s spent cock and sticky stomach; aims careful so some lands along the indents in his hips that he'd claimed were so unfair. He stiffens from sternum to knee in a way that makes Keith lament the fact he’s too limp to reach out and _touch_.

Afterward, stretched out beside him, Lance runs a fingertip idly through their shared come. It’s kind of gross, but Keith likes it all the same.

To be fair, the whole night has been kind of gross, but Keith has liked it all the same.

“So…” Lance says. “If I accept this as payment, can I get in on that pizza?”

Keith laughs.

“Do I need a coupon for that deal?”

Lance laughs, too.

“For you? Ongoing promotion.”

Nice.

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt made the rounds on Twitter. See [rae_aaah's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae_aaah/) excellent take on this prompt [here](https://twitter.com/randy_raaae/status/1210060820073340928), as well!


End file.
